Chapter 17 Declan
DECLAN
Although the old manor house is like taking a step back in time, the kitchen is modern. The polished stainless-steel glints in the light filtering through high windows. It’s nothing like the kitchen that made me avoid them so many years ago.
“Let’s see here. Where do they keep the desserts?” I say in a low voice.
We stop in front of a giant walk-in freezer.
“There’s your ice cream.” Maggie points.
“I think it’s more of a cake kind of night after all, but where would it be?”
She taps her chin, and my gaze trails down to the Bruiser’s logo on her sweatshirt. My chest crackles.
I say, “I hear the chocolate cake in Concordia is world-famous.”
Sensing my eyes on her, she looks at me and then down, eyes widening.
“Nice hoodie.” Gripping the hem, I give it a little shake.
She bites her lip. “My best friend gave it to me.”
I nudge her with my shoulder. An invisible little flame grows between us, warming me through.
“Best friend, huh? Then I should know your favorite kind of cake these days. Is it chocolate? Vanilla?”
“Love and like, respectively, but they’re not favorite status, though I haven’t tried the Concordia chocolate cake yet.”
“How about black velvet?”
“Nope.”
My eyebrows crimp. “Those are classics.”
“I’ve only had that kind once.”
I rake through my memory, trying to remember us eating cake together. “How can you know that something isn’t your favorite if you’ve only had it once?”
She lifts and lowers a shoulder. “You might go to a theme park only once, but know it was your favorite.”
“Like Disney World?”
She goes still.
Having seen the viral video, I sense it’s still a sore subject, but we’re friends.
We can talk about anything. “Mags, I saw the video when you fell into the fountain. You make a beautiful Cinderella, dry or wet. In light of that, I truly am sorry about the water guns and all that. It was bad timing.”
“I haven’t seen the video. I couldn’t bear to watch it after living it.” Her voice is small.
“If I’d let you hang onto my phone any longer, you’d have seen bloopers of me doing some ridiculous things on and off the field.”
Her frown goes deeper.
“I’m sorry someone captured that moment. Even though I don’t care that the world saw my rear end, it wasn’t like I wanted it to go viral, or be on the front page of every paper—physical or digital. So, in a way, I understand.”
She exhales through her nose. “I suppose you do. But that kid who fell in with me was a greasy, grubby, gross—”
“Want me to track him down and give him a taste of vanilla and chocolate?” I ask, holding up my fists.
A smile peeks on Maggie’s lips. “No, he was just a kid.”
“I’m human, so I know it was probably embarrassing—”
“How about humiliating, insulting, and dangerous?” Hurt laces her voice.
“All of the above, but if that’s the worst you have in the past, the biggest skeleton in your closet and you survived, I say you’re doing okay.”
She nods, but something about the way she shifts away suggests there’s something more. After all, we made a silent, but mutual agreement not to talk about our pasts. I’m certainly not proud of mine.
“Now, how about that cake? Tell me your favorite kind. I regret that I don’t know this piece of Maggie trivia.” I bump her with my shoulder.
“You’ll laugh when I tell you.”
“You know me, Magita, I’m all about laughter.”
I turn a corner in the kitchen, but it’s a dead end. I spin around and we collide. Our hands brush and the crackle turns into a blaze as if stoking the embers from when we held hands earlier.
“Your hands are cold. It’s a definite no on the ice cream.” My voice sounds unusually gruff. I want to rub her hands between mine to warm them up, but I worry that could make things awkward or that it would be unwelcome.
“This old building is drafty.”
The near darkness in the kitchen and her proximity after all this time give me courage. I clasp both her hands in mine and draw them close between us.
She wears a shaky smile and stares at our fingers as they link together. The crackling inside me grows.
With a straight face, I say, “I would never laugh at your favorite kind of cake. There is absolutely nothing funny about cake. Except for last year, the guys made me a chocolate birthday cake that resembled a certain emoji. Wolf brought a roll of toilet paper instead of napkins, if you catch my meaning.”
Her lips twist with a suppressed smile.
The light of the moon through the high window illuminates her face. Her skin is fresh from the mask she’d used and her eyes shine bright.
Our gazes lock. It’s an unspoken stare-off like a thumb war or arm wrestling.
But the winner will get the satisfaction of seeing my best friend, who has become a beautiful woman, smile.
Yeah, it’s a game I intend to win. Call me greedy, selfish, whatever, but there is nothing quite so satisfying as a genuine Margaret Pearl Byrne smile.
The corners of her eyes crinkle, then her lips crack before she tips her head back with a full peal of laughter.
I laugh too and then quickly shush us both.
She glances from our hands to my eyes.
I’m not sure if this is like in the hall during dinner and we’re having a real moment. But I’m determined to make it into one, so I kiss Maggie’s knuckles and after each peck, I say, “If your favorite kind of cake is a secret, it’s safe with me, Cinderella.”
Her breath catches.
Mine stops altogether.
What’s happening? What am I doing?
Playbook, playbook, playbook, I repeat in my mind.
“Cinderella?”
“Yes, my favorite fairytale princess. Oh, wait. Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who go around declaring they don’t need a prince.
That they’re not a damsel in distress. Let me make this clear.
No one needs a prince. Whether you want one and everything that comes along with it is another story.
And I’d argue that this Printz is pretty wantable. ” I wink.
Maggie’s exhale is shaky, but she follows with a steady inhalation. “If you know me at all, then you’re aware I’m not impressed by fame and fortune.”
“Clearly,” I say, recalling her reaction to my designer garb.
Maggie glances down as if suddenly shy. Then, as if gaining resolve, she says, “Someone loyal, caring, and kind. A friend and a teammate. Someone, who above all, knows who the true King is—our Lord and Savior.”
Biting my lip, I take a risk. “I can think of someone who checks off those boxes.”
“If it’s anyone on the Boston Bruisers, the answer is no.”
“No?” I ask.
“No,” she repeats. “They’re like your brothers and that’s a strictly platonic relationship. Imagine if I dated one of your teammates and things didn’t work out. They never do,” she mumbles, then more clearly says, “that would be awkward. Maggie plus any football player equals platonic.”
My shoulders dip. “Platonic?” I ask.
“Platonic,” she repeats.
“Sounds like a science term, astronomy specifically, or the symptom of a disease. Official definition: the absence of anything that would make a person happy.”
“What dictionary did you use?”
I tap my temple.
“I’m pretty sure platonic means the absence of romantic affections,” she says.
“In that case, like you and me?”
She tucks her head back. “You and me?” she repeats.
“Is that what this is?” I ask.
“Oh, right. Us. Yep. Purely platonic. That’s what this is. Nothing more. Yeesh. Of course. Duh.” Her eyes dart everywhere but at me.
A long beat passes while I have an internal fistfight with myself before dropping my hands and then pointing. “Look. The fridge. I wonder if there’s a cake inside.”
Another wall hosts several stainless-steel doors with long handles.
I should probably close myself in the freezer first to cool off. Stay in there for a day or two, because My Mag-amor just froze me out. Platonic.
Rolling my shoulders back, I can’t leave the ball in play.
Must. Finish. The. Game.
“Ah-ha. Which do you think is the lucky door? One, two, three, or four?” I ask.
“I’m going to go with four.”
“Like lucky player number forty-four.” I pull the door open and sure enough, it holds all manner of desserts from cheesecake to pie to parfait.
Maggie’s eyes widen. “Found the cake.”
It’s chocolate topped with swirls of whipped buttercream and little white candy pearls.
“That’s perfect. It’s official cake day. Or it was yesterday. Actually, I have no idea what day it is.” She sounds genuinely excited and like time doesn’t matter.
That makes me smile inwardly. “The best times I’ve ever had in my life were when I’ve forgotten what time or day it is.”
Her shoulders sink slightly as though the comment pinches something inside.
“This looks delicious. Care to split a slice with me?” I ask, wanting to bring back her smile.
“Usually, I share, but tonight, my dining companion had the worst manners, and I lost my appetite. I hardly ate a thing and am starved. You can have your own.” As she elbows past me and helps herself to a big piece, I detect the faintest smile.
As she balances it in her hand, I grip her waist and pick her up before setting her down lightly on the stainless-steel table.
She makes a little yelp of surprise and then quickly brings her empty hand to her mouth. “I forgot that I shouldn’t make any noise,” she whispers.
I hoist myself up beside her and then take a big bite of cake. She takes a tiny one. She closes her eyes for a moment and then her legs swing as though she’s a little girl who’d snuck into the kitchen for a midnight snack and is clearly pleased with herself.
Another thing that I’ve always loved about Maggie is that she’s playful, whimsical, and will do something like this and just have fun. So many of the women I’ve known in recent years think of fun as schmoozing, tipping back champagne, shopping, and tapping my credit card to pay for it all.
Maggerita blinks open her eyes as I stuff the rest of the piece of cake in my mouth. “You’re lucky I’m not grading you on this for manners. You inhaled that thing.” Despite claiming hunger, she’s barely made a dent in her piece.
“This is not an authorized lesson, so I’m off the hook, but you are not,” I say, wanting to remain in this secret space where we can be ourselves, best friends, and not have cameras, etiquette teachers, or anyone else intrude.
“What do you mean?” she asks, swiveling to face me.
“I want you to listen to that message on my phone.”
“Declan, I can’t. It’s private. None of my business.”
I clasp my hands in my lap. They’re suddenly sweaty with nerves as the past floods back and I anticipate whatever the caller has to say. “I need you to.” I need someone else to filter the message for me.
“Why?” she asks. “The other guys on your team are here. Why not have one of them do it?”
“Because they’re not you. Because they rely on me for my constant strength and focus.”
“Do you mean the content of the message might show weakness?” She’s smart and quick to pick up on what I can’t say. When I don’t reply, she says, “And you trust me with that?” Maggie points at herself and then licks some frosting off her finger.
Despite the subject of this conversation, my mouth waters.
“I trust you because you didn’t jump on the opportunity to use the fact that you had my phone against me.”
“Why would I do that? Who would do that?” she asks aghast.
“Maggie-ums, you’re smart and perceptive, but you have no idea how ruthless people who want a piece of fame and fortune can be.
As much as the media gives to my career, they could just as easily take it away.
I keep up the bravado publicly and toe the line with Coach Hammer, but despite my persona, I get the point that the commissioner is trying to make.
I don’t want the team to be cast into the shadows because of me.
..” Because of the real scandal of my past.
“I don’t know, Declan.” I’m not sure if it’s a statement or a question.
“Please?” I ask. The desperation in my tone jolts me with a shock of unreality, but so had the call I’d received years before from that same number. Typically, I’m not the kind of guy to say please or to be vulnerable with anyone, but Maggie draws something out of me that I can’t explain.
“What if the call is good news? Something pleasing. A charity event or birthday invite or an upcoming visit from your old friend?”
I tuck my head back and snort. “You could be right. I guess I just expected the worst.” I say it, but I don’t mean it. Whatever it is, it’s pretty close to the worst.
“Someone once told me that life is the way we perceive it. If we expect bad things, that’s what we’ll see. If we anticipate good stuff, we’ll get more of that.” The corner of her mouth lifts in a half-smile.
“Makes sense.”
“That someone was you, silly.” She passes me the phone. It’s as heavy as a sack of bricks. I’d know, my old trainer used to have me haul them.
Maggie inclines her head, indicating I listen to the voicemail.
I debate and then pass it back to her. “Can’t.”
“Won’t.”
“You won’t listen to it?” I ask.
“I mean, you can listen to it. You’re choosing not to. You won’t.”
“Fine. I admit that. I’d just rather not. Even if it’s good news.”
“How about this? We’ll play rock, paper, scissors. The best of three has to listen to the message.”
“Okay. I’m good at this.” I’m a winner. Only, this is a game of chance.
I try to get into the mind of my opponent.
Is Maggie a rock, paper, or scissors kind of gal?
I should know this. On the outside, she seems like paper, but on the inside, she’s solid, especially given that bit of wisdom she dropped about perception.
Not because I said it, but because she remembered it. Maybe needed it at some point.
Sure enough, she goes with scissors. I opt for rock.
“Rock beats scissors,” I say with confidence.
We tuck our hands behind our backs. She goes with scissors the next time and I opt for paper.
“I won, but now we’re tied. Whoever loses the next round has to listen to the call,” she says.
We repeat the motions. I produce scissors. She picks paper.
“I won,” I say, hopping to my feet and doing a victory dance.
“You know that’s obnoxious,” she says, but she’s smiling, a full-blown Maggie Swaggy smile.
Yep, I won. I pass her the phone, suddenly feeling hopeful. Maybe it is a call about a birthday or celebration or something involving cake.
With a huff, she taps the button and holds the phone up to her ear, listening.
Her eyes dim. Her shoulders drop. She tries to keep her face like stone, like rock, but I watch as it crumples like paper.
And at that moment, it’s like I’ve been burned and searing pain fills my entire body all over again.